


No Light, No Light

by themcgeek



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Bunker Fluff, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Demon Dean, Demon Dean Winchester, Fallen Castiel, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, Introspection, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themcgeek/pseuds/themcgeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t like he’d <em>meant</em> to fall in love with his best friend. Not Dean Winchester, ladies-man extraordinaire, with a devil-may-care grin. (For what it’s worth, the Devil probably <em>did</em> care, seeing as he was locked up for eternity, but that’s neither here nor there.) And, okay, it’s not like it’s the first time another dude has caught his eye-Dean is, after all a sucker for a man in uniform. His time-warp to the ‘40s certainly proved that. But he was 35(ish. Does hell-time count?) years old. Far too old to be stumbling around the bunker with a swarm of freaking <em>butterflies</em> in his gut every time he saw a glimpse of dark, messy hair.</p>
<p>Plus, you know, there was the whole <em>hey guys, I’m a demon </em>thing. Demons weren’t supposed to have warm and fuzzy feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Light, No Light

**Author's Note:**

> Song title from Florence + The Machine's song "No Light, No Light" which is possibly one of the most Destiel songs in existence.
> 
> Characters and settings are property of the CW. Obviously.
> 
> Lastly, a huge thank you to my brand-new beta extraordinaire, MagicMarker11, who kept me from getting to soap-opera levels of melodrama.
> 
> ***  
> Would you leave me,  
> If I told you what I've done?  
> And would you need me,  
> If I told you what I've become?  
> 'Cause it's so easy,  
> To say it to a crowd  
> But it's so hard, my love,  
> To say it to you out loud  
> \--Florence + the Machine, "No Light, No Light"

It wasn’t like he’d _meant_ to fall in love with his best friend. Not Dean Winchester, ladies-man extraordinaire, with a devil-may-care grin. (For what it’s worth, the Devil probably _did_ care, seeing as he was locked up for eternity, but that’s neither here nor there.) And, okay, it’s not like it’s the first time another dude has caught his eye-Dean is, after all a sucker for a man in uniform. His time-warp to the ‘40s certainly proved that. But he was 35(ish. Does hell-time count?) years old. Far too old to be stumbling around the bunker with a swarm of freaking _butterflies_ in his gut every time he saw a glimpse of dark, messy hair.

Plus, you know, there was the whole _hey guys, I’m a demon_ thing. Demons weren’t supposed to have warm and fuzzy feelings.

So, okay. When Dean had woken up after being gutted by Metatron, he was perhaps a little less surprised than he should have been. He was mostly just thankful that he was on his memory foam and not clawing his way out of a pine box (again). And he’d make sure to buy Sammy a nice…salad, or what the hell ever, in return for not torching his corpse. That’s probably a little harder to come back from. Even Cas (cue more frantic butterfly fluttering) hadn’t had to do that, and he’d been at full mojo.

Looking in the mirror after going through his usual SSS (shit, shower, shave)morning routine and seeing tar-black eyes? Well, that had been surprising, in that “well this is new” kind of way. Admittedly, Dean was expecting to be all murder, all the time once he came to terms with what his new peepers meant.

Mostly, he just felt drunk.

Okay, not drunk. Not really-he was far too familiar with that feeling. But he felt that unbearable lightness that comes with drinking a liquor store, the kind that makes you not give a shit. Lowers your inhibitions, or whatever.Except, in this case, his inhibitions were all but gone. Public indecency is a new favorite past time, and the more the merrier. Until it came to Castiel, former angel-of-the Lord-temporary-God-unleasher-of-Leviathan-angel-again-bringer-of-the-Fall-grace-stealer, who is now permanently, achingly _human_. The moment they’re in the same room, Dean goes full-on tongue tied preteen. It’s annoying, and definitely wasn’t included in the demon owner’s manual (that he has yet to receive. Thanks for nothing, Crowley.)

When it comes down to it, it’s not unexpected for Dean to aimlessly wander the bunker, avoiding his brother’s puppy-dog gaze and his…Cas’s scrutiny. Sam is just annoying, what with his, “Just let me help, Dean,” or “this isn’t you, Dean,” and, personal favorite, “you shouldn’t have accepted the Mark, Dean.” Well, no shit, but it’s too late now. Cas he avoids in the event that the last of his inhibitions fall. The last thing he wants to do is something to send the new human away again.

Pro tip: Don’t wander to unexplored sections of a demon-resistant bunker while demon.

Dean’s been stuck in the Devil’s trap for four hours, now. Painted in UV ink, it’s not visible until someone decides to go Room Raiders on this forgotten corner of dungeon. He _thought_ that his dearest brother had gone through and broken all the traps to prevent exactly this. Of course, why should he expect anything different? All it takes for him to get screwed is to extend a little bit of trust. As it was while human, so it shall be while demon.

Being stuck alone for hours with no change in scenery causes thoughts to go into weird places, clearly. And since Dean can multitask better than ever before, he’s able to sing through Zeppelin’s entire discography while simultaneously ruminating on the events that lead to the singing in the first place. So here he is, stuck in an invisible devil’s trap, struck with the realization that he’s been in love with Castiel for at least the last five years. Not just lust, which he’s always been aware of thanks to a two-way deliberate disregard for the concept of personal space. But actual, honest-to-God Love with a capital L. What do you even _do_ with that? It’s like something out of a chick-flick, a demon in love with an angel. Former angel. Whatever. Never mind the whole _gay_ aspect, which would have bothered Dean a lot more a year ago.  Honestly, at this point he cares more about the Impala getting scratched than the fact that he wants the D.

He was a little disappointed that Sam wasn’t more surprised when he caught Dean getting blown by some possibly-legal jock in an alley last week. Cas wasn’t there, having elected to spend his night catching up on trying to _understand_ all the pop culture references that were downloaded into his brain. And no, Dean definitely wasn’t feeling like Metatron robbed him of something that should have been for _him_ and _Cas_ , because that would indicate that he still has feelings. And, for what it’s worth, the possibly-legal jock _definitely_ didn’t have a runner’s build. Or dark, messy hair. Or blue eyes. Definitely.

So he finishes up with his Zep revue, and moves on to Metallica, and is three songs into St. Anger before he hears a noise directly above him. A creak of bedsprings; soft thuds of bare feet across a hardwood floor. One of the bedrooms, then. Static crackles from an old record player, and the muffled sounds of Tom Waits grumbles down to the dungeon. Cas’s room. Of course it would be Cas’s room. Dean sighs, his eyes flickering from the black it’d been stuck at since the trap caught him back to their normal green for just a moment as he listens to the deadened sounds of an early riser through ancient architecture.

It’s not until the noises above him cease altogether that he realizes he’d been singing along to the record that has been on repeat since its discovery. The hiss of the player stops, and the heavier thumps that move away tell him that Castiel has booked it out of his room. Dean closes his eyes, and pretends to sleep while his unnecessarily beating heart pounds in his chest.

Two sets of feet thunder down the stairs, echoing off the metal and concrete walls. He can hear the drag of fingers through hair as Sam shoves the mop out of his face. Cas is fidgeting, cracking his knuckles and picking at his cuticles. Now that they’re on the same level, Dean’s enhanced hearing can pick up every twitch the other men make.

“Dean?” The voice is tentative, but a low rumble that swells through his body like thunder. Cas.

“Nope, Chuck Testa.” He can actually _hear_ Sam’s eyeroll, and the wet click of Cas’s parting lips.

“Dean.”

“Yeah, Cas, it’s me.”

“Why are you in the dungeon? In the dark?”

“I was exploring. And I, uh, I guess I forgot to turn on the lights.”

“At least we’ll save on the electric bill,” Sam mutters.

“We don’t pay bills, Sammy. C’mon.” His brother huffs in annoyance, Cas scratches something, and the footsteps come closer. He doesn’t open his eyes until the footsteps stop on the threshold of the door, and a soft purplish glow warms the closed lids. The first thing he notices is the illuminated marks on the floor. The second thing he noticed was how much lint there was on everyone’s clothes. Jesus, they didn’t even _have_ a cat.

His brother went fucking Room Raiders on him. Black eyes snap up to meet hazel, and while Dean is faced with a dawning sense of horror, a grin is spreading across Sam’s face. Castiel is crouching at the edge of the circle, a confused frown wrinkling his brow. The moment he looks at the man within the circle, Dean feels the blackness recede again. The green remains, doesn’t flicker back to black with the blink of an eyelid.

Sam thrusts his fists in the air. “I knew it,” he cries, manic in his glee.

Dean lets his head thud against the concrete again, as Cas settles in at the edge of the trap, cross legged. His vessel’s aged, Dean notices. Faint lines fan from the corners of haunting blue eyes, still vibrant even without an angel’s grace. He’s beautiful.

“Dean, don’t you get it?” Sam is practically vibrating now, bouncing up and down on his toes. His hair flops back into his face with every descent, so he fists a hand in it to keep it at bay. “What was it that settled Cain, that made him become a man again?”

“Bees?” Dean tries dumbly.

“Collette, idiot. You’re the one who talked to the guy, why am I explaining this to you?”

“Yep, great story, Sammy. Too bad she got gutted by the blade back in the Wild West. Can you let me out, now?”

Ah, and there’s the bitchface. “It wasn’t her, specifically, Dean. It was-”

“Don’t.”

“-love.”

Dean pretends not to hear the way Cas sucks in a breath. Pretends not to see him turn betrayed eyes to Sam. Ignores the random intrusions of knees and elbows at the corners of his vision as his brother folds himself into position next to Castiel.

“Dean.” Sam is speaking again, but Dean can’t tear his eyes away from Cas’. He has to see it. The revulsion, the rejection, as Sam goes off half-cocked on one of his theories on how to “cure” Dean. “It’s time to stop pretending, man. Since you’ve gotten the Mark, even before…this…you haven’t given a damn about anything. The ends justified the means. Damn the consequences. You’ve done whatever the hell you wanted with no regard to anyone or anything. Including me. And maybe that’s fine. Maybe that’s how we should be. But Cas…” Sam leans forward, and still Dean doesn’t look. He’s too distracted by the way Cas’s eyes slam shut, like he can’t bear to be looking at either Winchester anymore. Dean has no doubt that if Cas were still Cas _tiel_ , angel of the whatever, he’d have fluttered out long ago.

“Dean,” his brother begins again, softer now. “It’s okay. Stop…fighting it. I mean, come on. I’ve been talking for like five minutes and you haven’t looked away from him for a moment.”

“Yeah, well, he’s prettier than you, Pantene.”

Sam huffs in annoyance. “Despite what you think, I’m pretty sure you just proved my point. The only people you two are fooling are yourselves.” He groans as he stands up again, muttering about being too old to sit on floors. “I’m just…gonna leave you to it.”

That startles Dean out of his stupor, but too late. Sam’s through the door and the bolt has come down before Cas has gotten to his feet. Dean makes an aborted movement toward the door, but is still held fast by the glowing sigils.

A dull clang echoes through the dungeon as Cas slaps the palm of his hand against the door halfheartedly. Dean tries not to laugh at his friend’s understated annoyance.

“Well, looks like it’s just you ‘n me, buddy. Heya, Cas.”

Under a stretched out AC/DC shirt that _totally_ used to be Dean’s, Cas’s shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. “Hello, Dean.”

 ***

And, well, Dean can’t help but grin at the familiar greeting. With an ease that is at odds with his human body, he pulls himself up to his knees, right as Cas arrives back at the edge of the circle. Dean gulps, struggling to breathe past the tightness gripping his lungs. Oblivious to the suddenly stifling air, Cas drops to mirror his position.

The pressure around Dean’s chest lessens suddenly, and he looks down to see where Cas has scraped away the paint at the edge of the circle that restrains him. At his questioning stare, Cas raises and lowers a shoulder, an imitation of a shrug. The collar of the tee slips a little farther to the side. Dark stubble fades to golden skin.

“I trust you,” Cas mumbles.

There’s no reason for Dean to stay. The trap has been broken. He can go back to avoiding Cas, to tripping over his tongue whenever their paths cross. Ships passing in the night.

He doesn’t.

“He’s right, you know. Sam.” He ignores the widening blue eyes that are boring holes into the side of his head. “But I can’t—I’m not good for people. Even before, y’know. This.” Deep breath. “It’s just so ridiculous, though. I mean, I’m a fucking _demon_ now, and you’re… You’re you.”

Cas shuffles closer. Places a hand on the side of his neck, presses a thumb to the edge of Dean’s jaw to force him to raise his head.

“You are Dean Winchester. The Righteous Man, whom I gripped tight and raised from Perdition. This,” he says, covering the livid mark on Dean’s forearm, “changes nothing. And it changes everything.”

The grip on Dean’s arm and neck goes tight, and he’s hauled forward, and spun around over the edge of the broken trap, landing heavily on his back, and Cas pins him to the ground. Cas’s hands are bruising in their intensity, and Dean revels in the pressure and pain.

Their chests are heaving, and Dean feels like he’s on a precipice, about to teeter over the edge. The tremulous hold on his self-control shatters, and he hauls Castiel down, gripping his shoulder like his own once was so long ago.

The meeting of their lips is at odds with the ferocity of their hold on each other. For the first time, the pain of the Mark of Cain fades not from sating bloodlust, but from the gentle brush of mouths. Dean pulls back just far enough to press his forehead to Cas’ and feel their breaths mingling.

“So, uh,” Dean begins, gesturing with his chin toward the now pale mark on his forearm. “This seems important. Sam would probably think… I mean, uh, _I_ think… Maybe I love you. Or somethin’.”

“And I, you, Dean Winchester.” Cas surges forward for another brief kiss. “From the very start.” Another kiss. “Until the very end.”

There are a few more moments, punctuated by heaving breaths before Castiel slowly drags himself off Dean, offering a hand up. They walk, fingers entwined, to the door. They both blink at it, realizing they’re locked in.

“I wonder,” Cas begins, digging into his pocket. Sure enough, when he removes his hand, a single key lay in his palm. Dean snorts and shakes his head.

“I see Sammy was very thorough with his plan.”

“Mmm,” Castiel rumbles. Well, Dean thinks, there’s a noncommittal answer if he’s ever heard one.

They don’t let go of each other as the wind through the dungeons of the bunker. Lights are left extinguished, and Dean leads Castiel through the dark. Their footsteps echo around them, sounding twice as fast as their pace. They sound to Dean like they’re mimicking his heartbeat.

Eventually a small square of golden light shines toward them, heralding their approach to the library. As they cross the threshold, Cas glances at Dean like he expects him to drop his hand. He grips tighter, instead. Sam, for his part, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow.

The silence is heavy as they stare at each other, before Dean breaks the silence. “So, the chick flick moment happened. Now what? Do you expect me to braid your hair or something, Samantha?”

Sam grins, and drops a leather bound tome on the table with a heavy thud that echoes through their bones. “You wish. Now? Research.”

Dean groans.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfiction for almost ten years. I feel like that needs to be disclosed, because this is what Destiel has done to me. 
> 
>  find me on Tumblr at themcgeek
> 
> Any and all kudos and comments are welcome.
> 
> <3


End file.
